Baby Jay

Mom lifts the sheet. “Why, exactly, did you need to use so much cleaning fluid, and why is this thing lying in a bin? Couldn’t they have given you something smaller, and preferably with a cover? You’ll get sick, breathing these fumes.”
“I’m just doing what I’m told.”
“It doesn’t seem very scientific. How long is this experiment supposed to last?”
“Not long. ’Til tomorrow, I guess.”
“You guess? Jason, I am not in the mood for playing games. If you’re hiding something from me—”
“There’s nothing to hide.”
“—there will be consequences, understood? I cannot have another thing on my plate. And Christ, can’t you keep it outside?”
“It’ll get dirty. The whole point is to try and clean it up.”
“Fine. But I’ll be having a talk with your science teacher tomorrow. It’s not appropriate to expose you to chemicals, even if it’s only for a day.”
She storms out, the argument with Dad seemingly forgotten. This would relieve Jay any other time, but now that she’s set on calling his chemistry teacher, he’s wound up with a new problem.
“Talk about childhood flashbacks,” Michael says. “Listen, if you can’t get me outta here at least gimme some more Tide Pods or something.”
Jay left the Tide Pods in the bathroom, and there were plenty to spare—but his adrenaline has worn off. His limbs are heavy, and his motivation sinks. Doing, thinking, talking. It’s too much. “They won’t argue, again,” Jay says. “They have a big blow-out then go to bed.”
“But what if they don’t, y’know? I can’t handle this shit, man. I need something to get me through. I need you, Baby Jay.”
Downstairs. Bathroom. Tide Pods. Upstairs again. It’ll take two minutes, if that. “Alright,” Jay says.
Jay checks the upstairs hall for sign of commotion. Mom’s shut her bedroom door, and by the sound of things Dad’s passed out on the couch, again, where he’ll pass the night stewing in sweat. He at least made a half-assed attempt at cleaning his puke.
Jay tries tiptoeing downstairs, but his limbs are wet cement. He spills down the steps in a stuttered, crescendo-ing rhythm. In the bathroom, he collects the Tide Pods, and on the way back stops in the kitchen for a glass of water. Its coolness centers him, clears his thoughts.
Back in his bedroom, he opens the door to find the bin with Michael missing.
A scream cracks the silence and pulls him through the house, to the garage.
He stops in the doorway. Across the room, Mom gawks at the bin, hands clapped over her mouth, eyes locked on Michael. Michael, who attracts cigarette butts, cobwebs, and loose screws from Dad’s rusted-open toolbox. The objects scrape along to the bin’s base, roll up the side, over the lip, and splash into the chemicals.
Having added to his body, Michael shifts, growing into a face.
Behind Jay, Dad appears in the doorway, sheen of drool glistening on his lower lip. “Who the hell is screaming?”